"A new galaxy," the commissaris said to his wife. "At three billion inhabitants each, multiplied by one million. How much would that be?"
"I don't know, dear."
"Would their suffering add up to the fear and pain of one child?"
His wife did not hear him, she was letting a little more hot water into the bath. "Are you comfortable, dear?"
"Very."
"Afterward you should have a nap."
He slept, first thinking, then dreaming about Boronski. After a while, he was conscious of waking up but resisted and slipped into no man's land where everything is instantaneously possible and solutions rise up like bubbles, each holding a complete picture.
He dressed and left. His wife accompanied him to the front door.
"You won't work, will you?"
"A little."
"In your office?"
"Oh yes."
His sleek Citroen was respectfully greeted by the old constable in charge of the large courtyard behind Headquarters. He reacted by lifting a finger. He didn't see the old man, he didn't see anybody in the corridors either. In the teletype room he asked to be connected to the Dutch embassy in Bogota, Colombia. After a good while the machine came to life. He heard the staccato of the keys, saw the words form.
"Please go ahead."
He gave his name and rank and asked for the ambassador.
"He's lunching."
"This is urgent. Please find him."
"It'll take time. He's not in the building. There are some festivities. Perhaps later in the afternoon…"
"It's late evening here, the matter cannot wait"
"Yes sir. You'll hear from us."
The commissaris returned to his room and brought out his projector. He unrolled the screen and closed the curtains. He sat and gazed at the slide showing Boronski and the unknown woman. The telephone rang two hours later; he was asked to return to the teletype room.
"This is the ambassador."
"Do you know a man by the name of Jim Boronski?"
"Yes."
"He died here in Amsterdam yesterday. There are some complications. Please describe the man to me, not his body, his mind, please."
The machine hummed. A minute passed.
"Are you there?"
"Yes," the machine wrote, "but remember that I'm a diplomat. I've also consumed a fair quantity of alcohol. This is not the time to make an official statement that is recorded at your and my end."
"Are you dictating this message?"
"I am."
"Can you handle the teletyper yourself?"
"I suppose so."
"Please make direct contact with me. I will ask the lady who's assisting me to leave this room and will write myself. Afterward I will destroy the messages."
The commissaris nodded at the female constable sitting next to him. She got up and left the room.
The machine hesitated. "This is…"
"Go ahead."
"The ambassador. Are you alone?"
"I am."
"What's your age?"
"Sixty-three."
"What is your job?"
"Chief of the murder brigade."
"Will you give me some private advice?"
The commissaris sat back. He reread the sentence, then reached for the keys. "Yes."
"I'm in personal trouble. I'm also drunk. The lunch was heavy. I need advice; do I have your word of honor that this correspondence will be destroyed?"
"Yes."
"I'm fifty years old. I'm partly homosexual. I'm married and have children, not yet grown up. My family does not know about my sexual inclinations. I appear to be normal."
"Homosexuality is not abnormal," the commissaris typed slowly.
"So I hear. I don't believe it. I'm ashamed. You understand?"
"Yes."
"I have a lover. A Colombian. Sometimes I visit him. He has had us photographed."
"I see."
"The photographs are revolting."
"So you say."
"I could describe them to you. You would agree then."
"I would not."
"Are you homosexual?"
"No."
"Are you faithful to your wife?"
"Lately yes; I'm old and suffer advanced rheumatism."
"And before?"
"Ye*, I was unfaithful."
"Often?"
"There were certain bursts of activity."
"Were you ever blackmailed?"
"No, but it has been tried."
"Photographs?"
"No, correspondence."
"What did you do?"
"I told the lady to go ahead. She did. Photocopies of what I wrote were sent to my wife and my chief."
"What happened?"
"I had some trouble, not too much, the truth is the best lie."
"My trouble is more serious than yours was."
"I don't agree."
The machine hummed for nearly two minutes. The commissaris lit a cigar. He puffed and watched the paper in the machine.
"You know, Colombia is not The Netherlands. Guns are for hire here. My enemy is evil. I was set up. He'll go to the limit."
"Don't."
"The matter could be arranged, I know where to go. A colleague was in the same predicament. His problem was taken care of."
"Don't."
"What if there's a scandal? I will lose my job, my wife, my children. At my age I cannot find other employment, I'll rot somewhere in fear, in misery. I'll be alone."
"You won't, but even so, there is always something worthwhile to do. Murder is a lowly way out and will twist back on you."
The reply was prompt. "Yes." There was a pause. "What would you do in my case?"
The commissaris put his cigar on the edge of the machine. He typed slowly and carefully. "I would sit in my garden and communicate with my friend. Do you have a garden?"
"Yes. Who is your friend?"
"My friend is a turtle."
The machine was quiet.
"You're laughing, aren't you?" the commissaris asked.
"I am. Your advice is good. I have a small dog, I will communicate with him tomorrow morning when I'm sober."
"What sort of dog?"
"Small, white with black spots, ugly. I found him a year ago, starving, covered with vermin."
"He'll confirm my advice."
"Yes."
"Boronski?" the commissaris asked.
The machine picked up speed.
"No good. I know him fairly well. An amoral smalltime tycoon. Deals in lumber and anything else that is profitable. Smuggles whisky into the country, on a fairly large scale. Probably exports drugs. Owns a large villa in the suburbs. Originally a ship's steward, worked his way up rapidly. Goes to most of the parties of the foreign community to show off his importance. Unmarried, but attractive to women. There have been unsavory affairs."
"How unsavory?"
"He uses women, then drops them when he feels bothered or as soon as they bore him. There have been divorces and at least one suicide."
The commissaris closed his eyes, opened them again, and typed out a description of the woman in the photograph. "Is she known to you?"
"Yes. She doesn't live here, she came on a South American vacation with her husband. They were due to go to Rio from here, but she stayed behind to continue her affair with Boronski."
"For long?"
"No. Boronski tired of her, he has a lot of choice here. She had no money and came to the embassy for help. We contacted her husband who paid for her ticket. About two months ago. She fell down the stairs in her hotel, slipped a disc and left in a wheelchair."
"Her name?"
"I forget, I'll phone my wife. Hold on."
The commissaris stretched.
"I have her name. Marian Hyme. Her husband works for a publishing company in Amsterdam. Was Boronski killed?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"He was harassed to death."
"Will you be ab
le to prove that?"
"No."
"So why bother?"
The commissaris lit another cigar. He smoked peacefully.
"I see," the machine wrote. "Thank you for your advice. I trust you. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
The commissaris got up and tore the sheet out of the teletyper. He crumpled it, together with the others that had slipped off the small table attached to the machine. He dropped the paper into a metal wastepaper basket, held the container on its side, and lit a match. The paper burned fiercely and the smoke hurt his eyes, but he held on until the flaming balls fell apart into black crisp shreds. He stirred the ashes with a ruler. Two girls came into the room.
"Is there a fire? Are you all right, sir?"
He coughed. "Yes. I'm sorry I made a mess. I threw a burning match into the trash can, silly habit of mine. My wife keeps warning me and I keep on doing it." He left the room while the constables opened windows and waved the smoke away with a plastic tablecloth.
It was quiet in the building as he walked to the corridor to take the elevator back to his office. He found Grijpstra and two middle-aged men waiting near his door.
"Sir," Grijpstra said, "I'm glad to see you. These gentlemen are Inspector Wingel and Subinspector Roider of the Hamburg Police. I have interrogated the suspect Mtiller, without success so far. These colleagues now request permission to speak with him. They have met him before and are interested to find out what connections he may have in Germany."
The two men straightened up and clacked their heels as the commissaris shook their hands.
"Why not? We're always happy to oblige."
Grijpstra smiled apologetically. "They want to see him right away, sir. They say it's better when the suspect is tired. We arrested MUller tonight because he was in possession of four pounds of high-grade cocaine and because he kicked and hurt Constable Asta's knee. She was in pain."
The commissaris stiffened. "She was, was she? How is she now?"
"De Gier took care of her, sir. They left together earlier on."
"Nothing serious?"
"Not too serious."
The commissaris looked into the cold eyes of the German inspector. "You may go ahead; my adjutant will find you a suitable office. Do you have a hotel?"
"We'll find a hotel later, Herr Kommissar, we know our way about in Amsterdam." Wingel bowed stiffly.
The commissaris watched the three men walk away, Grijpstra leisurely ahead, the German policemen marching slowly in step. He shuddered and his hand missed the door handle of his room.
10
"Good," the commissaris said while he read through the large menu, handwritten on elegant paper. "A new restaurant, but obviously handled by the right people. Even the chief constable recommends it. Hmmm, oysters. Hmmm, mushrooms. Hmmm, sirloin steak. Yes. Well, have you all made up your mind? I'm sorry I'm late, but I couldn't find a parking place easily and I've forgotten my cane, took a while to get here. Oysters, Grijpstra?"
The waiter took his time writing down the order and the commissaris sipped his drink. Asta sat opposite him.
"How's your knee, dear?"
"The swelling is going down, sir."
"I trust you had a restful night?"
Asta looked at de Gier. "Not quite. The sergeant has a cat. I woke up in the middle of the night because I thought my alarm went off." She pointed at an electronic watch that seemed far too large for her slim wrist. "I switched it off, but the beeping went on. It was the cat and a friend."
"The cat beeped?"
"No sir. The friend. A mouse. I suppose Tabriz wanted to catch the mouse, but the mouse didn't want to play. It got annoyed. When I switched on the light, I saw the mouse jumping, a foot high, right in front of the cat. Every time the mouse faced Tabriz, it beeped. It was a rhythmical sound, that's why I thought my alarm went off."
"I'll have another drink," the commissaris said, holding up his glass. "I see. These are modern times indeed. Not only do you spend the night with a lover, you're telling us about it."
"He didn't love me, sir. My knee still hurt. I didn't want to go home. My landlady doesn't approve of latecomers and I don't have a key for the night lock. There was no choice."
The commissaris offered de Gier a match. "Sergeant?" "Yes sir. Thank you, sir."
"You'll never learn, will you? Is there a happy end to the tale?"
"Yes sir. She made me get up and take the mouse down to the park. It wasn't hurt. Tabriz couldn't go to sleep after that; she rattled about in the kitchen. Kept me awake."
The meal was served and the commissaris was the first to finish his plate. He sat back and lit a cigar. "The chief constable was right, this is an excellent place to have lunch. Now then, I must congratulate you three on the arrest of Miiller. I would like to hear the details. Tell me, adjutant, but eat your potato first."
Grijpstra reported. The salt cellar became Miiller, a toothpick was Asta, the Black Jackets turned into two black olives, de Gier was a small cigar, and Grijpstra himself the pepper shaker.
"No," the commissaris said, "you mean to say that you mugged the robbers?"
"There was no other way, sir. We had to keep them away from Asta. We couldn't arrest them because they hadn't done anything yet. If we'd merely stopped them, they might have shouted or interfered with Mtiller's arrest in some other way."
The commissaris pushed his spectacles to his forehead. He picked up the olives and ate them, then he chuckled. "Hee hee, Grijpstra."
"I'm sorry, sir, but we did a good thing; the parson got his money back."
"Hee hee." The commissaris laughed helplessly. Two tears streamed down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his handkerchief. "How silly, Grijpstra, how apt. What splendid fellows you two sometimes are."
"And MiUler confessed, sir," de Gier said. "We got his statement this morning in German. Inspector Wingel gave it to us, signed and witnessed by himself and his assistant."
The commissaris was serious again; he blew on bis spectacles and wiped them carefully. "Yes? I thought Mttller wasn't too cooperative after the arrest."
"He wasn't," Grijpstra said, "but he weakened when the German inspector woke him up somewhat roughly, sir. They had him for two hours after that."
"Were you there?"
"No sir, I waited in my office. They interrogated him in a room on another floor. It was five in the morning then and there wasn't anybody in the building, except the staff of the radio room. I thought I heard Miiller scream a few times. When I saw him again, there was a stream of spittle running out of the side of his mouth and he seemed dazed. Subinspector Roider had gloves on; he was taking them off when he escorted the suspect to my office. Muller's face seemed abnormally red."
"Ah."
"The German colleagues were pleased, sir. The suspect had provided them with some names and addresses in Hamburg and other cities. He also made a full confession. Apparently Boronski had brought down the first consignment of cocaine to get the connection started. Future deliveries would be made by couriers, so-called tourists, nice elderly couples who would have their trips paid for and receive an ample fee on top of expenses. This was the first time Muller bought drugs from Boronski. Until now their business was legitimate."
"Where did he buy before?"
"From Turkey through Lebanon and France, but that traffic was stopped by the French police a while back. He was buying heroin then, but cocaine is about as profitable."
"Have the Germans left?"
"Yes. They said Muller was lucky that he was caught here and not in his own country. The penalties in Germany are stiffer, here he'll only get a few years."
"True," the commissaris said. "Did you ask him anything about Boronski's death?"
"Yes, he denies having anything to do with that."
"Do you believe him?"
"Yes sir." Grijpstra was playing with the menu that the waiter had replaced next to the commissaris's plate.
"Yes," the commissaris said, "we'll choose our desserts in a min
ute. Why don't you believe that Muller killed Boronski?"
Grijpstra put the menu down and held up two fingers. "First, Boronski was Muller's goose that lays the golden eggs. Second, Mtiller wouldn't have placed the body in his own car, a car reportedly stolen at the time and looked for by the police."
De Gier held up a finger too. "Boronski died of an ulcer, sir."
They ordered and ate their desserts. It took a while, for both Grijpstra and Asta selected the special, which came in a tall glass and had many layers of different ice creams, topped with fruit and whipped cream.
"Boronski was killed," the commissaris said when Asta licked her spoon. "He was attacked by a mind that was more subtle and agile than his own, and manipulated to the point where his fear and uncertainty turned inward and gnawed through his gut. Remember Mr. Fortune, this case is similar. Fortune faltered, became accident prone, fell afoul of the police, and was dumped into the Brewerscanal. But there was some insight in him and he managed to save himself. Fear eventually strengthened Fortune; it destroyed Boronski, understandably, I suppose. Boronski was, I hear, rather a rotter, and Fortune, according to your reports, seems to be a nice fellow."
De Gier deposited the remnants of a match into the ashtray. "Is good stronger than evil, sir?"
"I've often wondered about that," the commissaris said, "and I do believe that I have had some indications that the supposition may be true. The subject is tricky, sergeant. Good is useful and evil destroys. Sometimes it is good to destroy, and useful is often a shallow definition; it's relative, of course." He folded his napkin. "If we imagine that a drug dealer is a bad man and that a publisher ready to retire in solitude to meditate on the center of things is a good man, and if we bring them both into stress situations by playing about with their environment, and if they are both of the same strength, I would say that Boronski will go under and Fortune will come out on top. But the experiment starts at the end and I've built up its base afterward. We know that Fortune is a happy man today and Boronski's spirit is in hell, if I'm to believe Mr. Jacobs, the morgue attendant."
The Mind-Murders ac-8 Page 15
